Arrived at the bungalow, Robert's first demand was a bath in the
quarry pool. To this I had accustomed him and we stripped and swam
for ten minutes. You will perceive the value of this operation. His
clothes were ready for me without speck or blemish; and when we
returned from the pool into the shelter of the bungalow it was a
naked man I smote and dropped with one blow of my formidable weapon.
His back was turned and the pole-axe head went through his skull
like butter. He was dead before I cut his throat, put on my shoes
and hastened, naked, to the moraine with a spade.

I opened the grave under the falling water and dug two feet into the
loose stuff, for that was deep enough. Then I carried him and my
clothes from the bungalow, interred them, heaped back the soil and
left the eternal percolations from above to do the rest. By the
following morning it had demanded very keen eyes to discover any
disturbance at that spot even had search been instituted at
Foggintor. But I did not desire a search and my subsequent measures
prevented it. A Ganns might have discovered clues, no doubt; a
Brendon was more easily deluded.

I stood now free of the vital object in a murder--the corpse, and it
remained for me to create the false appearance of reality with which
these operations have always been so successfully enshrouded. I
donned Redmayne's clothes. We were men nearly of a size and they
fitted closely enough, though too large in detail. I then adjusted
my wig and mustaches, drew Robert's cap over my head--it was too
large, but that mattered not. I next obtained the sack, touched it
in blood and put into it my handbag and a mass of fern and litter
to fill it out. Then I fastened it behind the motor bicycle--an
unwieldy object designed to create the necessary suspicion.

There was now nothing of either Redmayne or myself left at
Foggintor. The gloaming had long thickened to darkness when I went
my way and laid the trail through Two Bridges, Postbridge and
Ashburton to Brixham. Once only was I bothered--at the gate across
the road by Brixham coast-guard station; but I lifted the motor
bicycle over it and presently ascended to the cliffs of Berry Head.
Fate favoured me in details, for, despite the hour, there were
witnesses to every step of the route; I even passed a fisher lad,
descending from the lighthouse for a doctor, where no witness might
have been hoped for or expected. Thus my course was followed and
each stage of the